For the First Time
by Englund
Summary: After Destroying his Music, Christine Day thinks it's all over. But is it really? Follow this story of love, trust, hate and betrayal as Erik Destler (1989 Phantom of the Opera starring Robert Englund) chases after his inspiration yet again. Will he get what he desires? Or will Hell truly be getting what one desires? Forever? or Not Forever?
1. Prologue: Christine Day

For the First Time

CHRISTINE DAY

As I turned the corner, I shook my head. That man was so strange. His music almost coincidental. When I had turned to look back at him, his aura made me feel ill. Yet, somehow, the slow saws of his strings was like a haunting requiem of my recent past. Trying to clear my head, I began to head to Meg's apartment. _Hopefully she's there_, I thought

She swung open the door and hugged me as if we had been seperated for months.  
"Where have you been, Chris? And WHAT exactly are you doing here at this hour? I was wondering if that producer dude kidnapped you!"  
The time... I glanced at my watch. I'd be damned if it wasn't almost two o'clock.  
"I lost track of time, my bad."  
"Eh, no big deal!"  
I was shocked I had not noticed.  
"Thanks, Meg. And no, he did not kidnap me," I laughed. "It's cold, get in here! Come on, you can spend thes night," Meg chimed as she ushered me in, shutting the door before the night let the cold in.

"So, what he'd keep you so long for, since it' obvious you weren't held hostage by him," Meg questioned eagerly, making a cup of hot chocolate. "Not... Not a lot," I shrugged, not daring to speak the truth.  
"Have some in depth conversations?"  
"Oh my God, no! I saw that smirk! Just, no, girl!"  
"I knew that'd get a rise out of you, Chris!  
Meg is notorious for that devious sense of humor. But as much better off the night would've been with that, she was so far off; I was't about to share.

I was going through my purse and realized my apartment key was gone. _SHIT, _I said to myself. But that was the lat of my worries and troubles now. How was I going to explain this night without Meg going A-wall? She's my best friend, but what would become of us if she knew?  
"Sooooo, how was your night with him?" Meg asked eagerly, sitting on the foot of her bed. I swear, if my heart could sink any lower, it'd be trying to crawl under my foot so I'd step on it.


	2. The Resurrection Erik Destler

CHAPTER ONE: THE RESURECTION OF ERIK DESTLER

ERIK DESTLER

The steam of the gutters withered in my face as I sat at the bus. People chattering about their obsured lives on this planet, the rats and birds pick through the trash like beggars at a feast. _Where the hell am I? _I knew damn well where I was, I just wish I'd hadn't. I wished I could see the face of London in its glory golden years as I remember; not these brutal streets. For once I hadn't desired music. More than ever, I Wished for my inspiration, my heart... My Christine.  
_"You have always been my inspiration..."_

I was interupted by a man. I stopped tuning the strings. "Smoke?" He offered, holding a pack a camels. I sneared hastily. "Go... away... I'm busy," I growled, returning to the strings. He punched my shoulder lightly.  
"You got a nasty attitude, fiddler."  
"You're a nosey fucker, I see."  
"Excuse me, Sir?"  
I ignored him. _No need to make a scene, _I said to myself. Eventually, the man spat on my face and stumbled off. Rubing the spit and chewing tobacco from my cheek, I saw a stitching. _Damn..._ I looked off towards the man down the road. _Perhaps he's still holding that offer. _I smirked from beneath my brim.

Taking the long way around, I was surprised to find he sensed the spark to find him faster than I had. I found myself blocked from both sides. "Change your mind, Fiddler?" He snorted, pulling a small hunting dagger from his pocket. I tipped my brim, and sure enough, the henchman came from behind. He was pathetic. Knocking him with my long coat, I threw him down. The brute staggered.  
"This what you wanted?"  
Holding up my violin case full of money, I swung out and knocked him unconscious. Before he fell, I finished the job, snuffing him out with the grip of my belt to his neck.  
The first man just stood, his Camel dropping from his scarred, dry lips. Sweat trailed from his dark and street-burnt brow. He made a break for it. _Just like old times, _I laughed to myself, using my belt in a whip-like correspondense. Like a snake, it binded his ankles, forcing him to colaberate with the filthy asphalt. His screaches of fright were short lived, as I stepped the arch of my boot over his throat, waiting for that little vent of air to shut off. When it did, I claimed my prize of hide, and a few others.

I needed a hotel, and I needed it quick. Wrapping my bounty in a napsack, I lit myself the offered smoke, and trailed down the road.


End file.
